


Or Am I Losing My Mind?

by Scriblit



Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Non-Graphic Violence, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicidal Thoughts, data/riker if you squint, post first contact fallout, the road to MH recovery is not a simple one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21945445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scriblit/pseuds/Scriblit
Summary: Can be read as a sequel/companion piece to my earlier fic, 'Survivors'.A couple of weeks after the Borg boarded the Enterprise and took him captive, Data spends a day trying to ease himself back in to active duty. It doesn't go well.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 53





	Or Am I Losing My Mind?

**Author's Note:**

> This can be read as a sequel to my earlier fic 'Survivors', it's the same storyline, just a week or so later, I had other threads I wanted to pull on. This is all Data's POV, so if anything it's a bit grimmer. What a time of year to post this, HAPPY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE.
> 
> TWs for: discussion of 'off screen' past coercive rape, sexual threats, PTSD, suicidal thoughts/fantasies, MH related paranoia, hallucinations, self-marking in lieu of self-harm, moderate violence, compulsive behaviour.

Or Am I Losing My Mind?

**The sun comes up, I think about you**

Vonnegus slid into view as the ship turned. The pre-industrial civilisation on the star’s third planet had been left undisturbed by the Borg as they had passed close to its system. ‘Mercifully,’ Command had said. 

Mercy had nothing to with it. Not with _them_ , not ever. It was simply that the Borg had made the tactical decision to head straight to Earth, giving Starfleet as little time to mobilise a defence as possible.

The people of Vonnegus III had no idea how close Hell had passed them by.

…Hell…? 

Yes. Hell. Merciless Hell.

He gazed out of his quarters’ window at Vonnegus III as dawn kissed the coast of its northern continent. All those lives. He hoped for their sake that they would remain as uninteresting to the Borg the next time.

Because there will be a next time, Data.

And what are you going to do then?

What are you going to do then??

Possible future scenarios played themselves out in his mind, almost like his dream program, even though he was awake, he did not active his dream programme any more, no no.

_’They’re boarding us!’_

_‘They’re everywhere!’_

_‘Shit, no!’_

_Their hands, on his ankles._

_‘Kill me!’_

_Their hands, everywhere._

_‘Kill me!! Geordi, please! Do it! Do it! Do it now do i-‘_

_Howls of despair. Their hands, everywhere._

His skin crawled. Finally, he understood the idiom. Skin _moving_ , raising in goosebumps, with the instinctive ancestral memory of fur. And he had… liked it, at first. Liked the crawling of the stolen skin, the muscle memory passed down from primitive ancestors, generation upon generation (intercourse upon intercourse), only to be peeled off its rightful owner and grafted on to him.

And he. Had. Liked. It.

He had deserved what had happened next. He deserved how he felt now, and he did still feel now, their override of his emotion chip was still in effect, no matter how he tried to circumvent it and switch it off.

Switch off. Switch off. Switch off.

_’Please! Kill me! Do not let them take me alive, not again, not again.’_

_But his friends would hesitate. Too late. Too late. Their hands, everywhere._

The ship continued to turn. Vonnegus disappeared from the view of his window. He was left staring at the darkness of space, and his own reflection. He knew that it was his reflection, and yet it was… not. It was not right. He removed the eye patch, briefly. Gazed into the twinkling socket. Pale, organic appearing face, one crude, electronic eye socket… He put the patch back on again.

The new synthetic skin graft on his arm crawled. He scratched at it. It was not a part of him. It was not right. 

He would get a replacement eye. He would get used to the synthetic skin grafts. He would circumvent the emotional override. He would wash off the stink, in time. In time.

_’Please, kill me!’ Their hands._

He would attend the Captain’s briefing today. He was being ‘eased back in to active duty’.

He would get better.

_’Please!’ Hands._

He fed his cat, and stroked her back as she ate. He wished that he could take pleasure from the act, tactilely or emotionally. He could do neither.

He left his quarters, and made eye contact with nobody until he arrived at the briefing and discovered that he was, somehow, nine minutes late.

**The coffee cup, I think about you. I want you so, it’s like I’m losing my mind.**

She was waiting for him, sitting in Ten Forward with her back to him. He brought her an offering of coffee, and sat down next to her.

He waited for her to make the first move. He always did. He found that it was the wisest thing to do, with ghosts.

She took the coffee, and turned her head to face him. She looked older, as if she had aged eight years with the rest of them. She seemed horribly sad.

‘You have something to say.’

She did. He could tell. But she said nothing, this time. She just gave him that same, sad look.

‘I am sorry.’

She listened, neither accepting nor rejecting the apology.

‘I ruined the memory. I… broke us. What there was of us.’

She had begun to fade, her skin turning pale and cold and greasy. Glassy eyes. Darkness, everywhere. Her smiles, lost. The gentle touch of her hands, lost. Her warmth, the spark in her eye, even her bright fury, all gone. All gone. Overwritten. Corrupted.

She laid his hand on his wrist, and it stank of Borg.

‘It never happened,’ he whispered. ‘This never happened.’ He looked around. ‘I am not really here. Ten Forward is…’

Ten Forward was 7508 light years away, smashed, succumbing to rot and mould and moss and lichen. Plantlife would have started to claim it by now, along with the bridge, along with his old quarters, along with Tasha’s old quarters. Those sites of softness and warmth belonged to the trees now, on an alien world. They were as dead and gone as Tasha.

This vision of Ten Forward was as much a ghost as Tasha. Past hope. Past help.

‘Help,’ he said.

‘What?’ asked Commander Riker.

Data blinked. ‘What?’ he echoed.

He was not in Ten Forward. There was no table, no coffee, no Tasha. He was in the turbolift. Commander Riker was looking at him with that expression, that expression they all kept making. Worry. Pity. Before all of this, Data had had no idea that he could actively hate seeing such expressions of concern on the faces of his friends. Before all of this, it would have made him appreciate their empathy, and feel valued. Now, he wanted to crawl inside himself somehow because those expressions meant that they knew. They knew. They knew what had been done to him. They knew what he had done, in return.

‘We were discussing how your internal chronometer seems to have lost nine minutes,’ the Commander reminded him, with that expression still, stop it, stop making that face, William Riker, ‘but you kind of drifted off for a moment, and then you said “help”.’

Data nodded. ‘I still need help in recovering those nine minutes. Perhaps…’

Perhaps someone switched him off.

Perhaps they switched him off to do things.

He always knew that his off switch made him vulnerable.

Would they switch him off to try to “fix” him? His friends?

Would they switch him off to… do something else? Interfere? Was he not infected, now? Corrupted? Innocent little Data, did you hear what he did? What he allowed to be done to him? Did you hear about him and Tasha? She only had to ask, and now it turns out you do not even need to do that. May as well. May as well. Just switch him off for it, he would never know.

His friends would never do that. Never! He was becoming paranoid, the Borg had given him paranoia.

Riker had switched him off, that time. In front of all those people. To try to show that he was a… _thing_.

Fresh humiliation and anxiety plumed. He reminded himself that the Commander’s hand had been forced, they had made him do it, made him _assault_ him, after he had stated that the off switch was private, Riker had just… shown everybody. How safe was Data, truly? How safe was he alone in a small space with him? How safe would he ever be again?

They had used Tasha’s memory at that trial, too. Data, as well. After _she_ had stated that what had happened between them had been private.

He was no better. How he wished that she were still here, alive and warm and not a memory ruined by coldness and violence and degradation.

Riker was still looking at him, expecting him to finish his sentence.

‘I shall run another self diagnostic on my internal chronometer,’ he said. 

‘Is there any chance,’ replied Riker, a faint, hopeful smile playing over the sad concern in his expression, ‘that your programming may have evolved so that sometimes you just… lose track of time? That’d be pretty human.’

But Riker knew that he was not a human. Riker knew that he was a thing that could be switched off and interfered with. Riker knew, and could Data really trust him?

‘I do not “lose track of time”,’ Data replied, faintly. ‘Not even when I am…’ switched off. Not even when he was switched off. Not even when they switched him off to pin him to that table.

The table. The table, their hands, everywhere. For a second he was back there. He closed his remaining eye against it.

‘Are you seeing things?’

Data snapped his eye open and stared at Riker.

‘Have you talked with Deanna about Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, at all?’

She had attempted to broach the matter, but he had changed the subject. It felt wrong. This was not a human mental illness, it was Borg corruption, and Counsellor Troi could not understand that. Neither could Commander Riker.

‘I think you should,’ continued Riker. 

The turbolift stopped, and Riker got out. 

The anxiety of being trapped in the turbolift with someone who could switch him off was sharply replaced with anxiety of being left in the turbolift by himself. He followed Riker out, unsure of what to do next.

**The morning ends, I think about you. I talk to friends, I think about you.**

‘First day back at work,’ said Geordi, gently.

Data nodded. Geordi smelled of Engineering. Data had once spent weeks attempting to understand the strong connection between olfactory stimuli and memory in many sentient species, including humans. He had wondered at it. Now, he understood. He wanted to tear out his smell receptors.

‘Heard you managed to be late,’ added Geordi. ‘That’s not like you.’

‘I am… easing in to it.’

‘By losing nine minutes?’

‘Nobody switched me off,’ Data told him, ‘I ran several tests to check.’

Geordi snorted a soft laugh. 

‘Where’d that come from?’

Data shook his head. ‘Merely a possible explanation.’

He could trust Geordi. Geordi did not receive his emotions without his consent, he would tell others about his off switch nor switch him off without his say so. Geordi had not been forced onto the collective with Data, left horribly party to his innermost thoughts.

‘You sure about this?’ Geordi asked as they walked. ‘Not too soon?’

‘I need to go to Engineering sooner or later,’ Data reminded him. ‘Is it not better to... rip off the sticking plaster?’

Geordi laughed softly at the idiom. The smell of Engineering was getting worse, and with good reason. They turned a corner, and there was the door.

Suddenly, Data no longer believed it to be a good idea to ‘rip off the sticking plaster’. He wanted to keep the sticking plaster on, and ignore the wound beneath it.

Their hands were there already, waiting for him.

He realised, a little after Geordi realised, that he had slowed to half his usual walking pace.

‘You don’t have to do this today,’ Geordi reminded him. ‘It’s only been a couple of weeks.’

Data did not have to. Data did not want to. Data took deliberate step after deliberate step towards the door. He stopped suddenly, 1.13 metres away from the open door. He could not see their arms slithering along the floor, hands grasping for his ankles, but he remembered them, remembered the sensation.

‘Just a few more steps,’ Geordi told him, his voice low and kind. ‘They’re gone. They’re completely gone. Might do you good to see it, you’d never even know they’d been there…’

Geordi trailed off, awkwardly. Data would _always_ know that they had been there. Everybody would.

He looked in through the open door. It did appear much as it had done before the Borg attack. The Engineering crew all busying about, talking, laughing, it was alive again – a functioning hub of activity and camaraderie once more, and yet…

And yet, there was the spot where they had grabbed him. There was the spot where they had mutilated him. There was the spot where… where the table had been.

This was where he had been stuck ever since, despite never being able to physically set foot in the place.

The table was no longer there, of course. Data could see that from where he stood. He scrutinised the area for any remaining part of it the may have been missed. He saw none, from the floor to the ceili…

The security camera. There was a security camera in the ceiling. There always had been.

In amongst all of what had happened, he had not considered the camera.

They would not have bothered to switch it off.

Geordi followed his line of sight. ‘It’s OK,’ he said, and Data knew then that Geordi had seen it all.

‘I had to review the footage,’ Geordi told him, ‘make sure they hadn’t left any more nasty little surprises in Engineering. It’s the beating heart of the ship, Data, I couldn’t risk it. I made sure I was the only one, though, and the records have been filed under strictest confidence.’

Data could make no reply. Geordi had watched it. 

‘I’m responsible for this place,’ continued Geordi, watching him carefully. ‘I had to. And I felt, maybe it was better if it were me, rather than someone you didn’t…’

‘Trust?’ said Data, quietly.

‘I was gonna say, someone you didn’t know, but Data, you know you can trust me. I’ll never breathe a word without your say-so, but if you ever want to talk about it, or…’

Geordi brushed his fingers over Data’s elbow. An intended gesture of friendliness and support, Data knew, but Data automatically winced away from the touch. Geordi had watched it. They had even managed to ruin his friendship with Geordi. Everything was corrupted. 

‘Help,’ said somebody, far away.

‘If you need help, we can get you help,’ replied Geordi, his hands raised where Data could see them. ‘Gotta be honest, I can see you’re really struggling today, this is clearly too much, too soon. Did you want me to call for Deanna?’

Data just stepped away. Away from the glaring spot where the table had once been, away from the judgmental, unblinking eye of the camera, away from the stink of Engineering. Away from Geordi.

‘Data, I’m worried,’ Geordi told him, desperation creeping into his voice. ‘You know you’re overheating right? I’m worried it’ll get too much. You can’t carry on like this…’

Data could carry on. He could. Just, not in Engineering.

**And do they know? It’s like I’m losing my mind**

He set the cup of coffee next to Tasha. The offering on the shrine. She took the cup.

‘Where does it hurt?’ she asked. She was talking, this time.

‘I keep thinking about those robots,’ he told her.

‘Don’t say that word.’ There were tears in her eyes.

‘Those robots,’ he continued, ‘that they would build on Earth in the early 21st Century. For sex.’ He frowned, and corrected himself. ‘For masturbation, it could not be sex because they could not consent. They were things.’

‘Don’t.’

‘Sometimes they would have parties where multiple people would have… would masturbate using them, and they would break the robots as a result.’

‘Don’t say it, Data.’

‘Is that what I was? Is that what I am? A sophisticated continuation, breakable in whole new ways?’

Tasha was not weeping in the manner that humans usually do – her face did not flush, the area around her eyes did not become inflamed, she did not sob nor stutter for breath. Tears slid quietly down her ghost of a face.

‘They took me to trial to prove I was a thing.’

‘Data, you’re hurting yourself. You need help.’

‘They made me talk about you, at the trial. She made me talk about you, when she…’

‘You need help.’

‘You meant something to me. Did I mean anything to you? Am I a thing?’

‘You need help. You need to wake up.’

‘Am I a thing?’

‘You need to wake up. You’re not OK.’

‘Are you OK?’

The vision of Ten Forward vanished, along with the ghost of Tasha. He was in the turbolift. Dr Crusher was gazing at him with an air of quiet concern. 

‘I am fine,’ he lied.

‘OK,’ she replied, quite obviously aware that he was lying.

The rest of the turbolift journey was spent in awkward silence. He carefully wiped his face once her back was turned, but he knew that she knew that he had been crying.

**All afternoon, doing every little chore, the thought of you stays bright**

He chose as simple a task as he could for the remainder of the shift he had been ‘eased into’ – performing tertiary checks on the navigation system, making certain that the Borg had not left any ‘nasty little surprises’ there as well.

 _He_ was their ‘nasty little surprise’.

He had become a thing, a thing to be used, switched off and on and used and broken.

He was no longer sure that he was safe here, around his friends.

He _knew_ that he was not safe in the long term, because the worst truth of them all, worse than any of these other things, terrible and unavoidable was the truth that the Borg would come back.

And then what?

_Please, kill me! Too late. Hands. Help. Help. You need to wake up._

A hand grabbed his.

_HANDS!_

He yanked his hand away with a yelp that surprised him, and shrank back against the wall.

‘I said, what’s going on, Data?’ It was Commander Riker. Something about his demeanour concerned Data. Could he trust him? He could switch him off if he wanted to.

‘…What…?’

‘You turned the ship. We’ve been doing loops for five minutes, now.’

Data frowned from the Commander to the navigation computer. ‘No. I was performing checks on the system.’

‘You were diverting all control to this monitor and then making the Enterprise do an impression of a carousel horse.’

Data shook his head. He was certain that he had been performing checks, but… perhaps his mind had wandered a little, and now… oh, yes, now the ship was indeed stuck in a repeating pattern of tight circles. There were alarms going off. How was he only just aware of those?

‘I did not… Could it have been someone else?’

Riker shook his head, sadly. ‘Data, this isn’t working.’

‘No.’

‘You very, very obviously need more time.’

‘Please, just give me another…’

‘You need to recuperate properly. What you went through was… unique, we don’t know how long this will take…’

‘It is not singular. There are precedents. The Captain…’

‘The Captain needed months, Data. You’ve taken weeks. And he’s still not completely OK. And _he_ wasn’t…’ Riker cut himself off, abruptly.

(He knows, he knows, you cannot trust him.)

‘You know Deanna was furious with me for suggesting you even be allowed to try going back to work so soon? Should have listened to her. Both of us.’

‘I want to work, Sir.’

‘I know.’ Riker sighed. ‘But you can’t. Not yet. Now, let’s get the ship out of spin mode and get you somewhere nice and relaxing, I have a great holodeck jazz club programme – do you like Courtney Pine? What am I saying - _everybody_ likes Courtney Pine, they just might not know it yet.’

_You cannot trust him. Help. Help!_

‘No. I will not go with you.’

Riker sighed again. ‘Data, I don’t want to have you physically removed, with what you’ve been through…’

_Hands hands, he would switch you off, done it before, and then what? Helphelp wake up, help_

‘We’re _trying_ to help you,’ replied Riker, in a tone of voice that suggested Data had said at least some of what was running through his head out loud.

**Sometimes I stand in the middle of the floor; not going left, not going right**

Alone in his quarters, he decided to paint.

His cat sat comfortably on his desk and watched him as he mixed the paints and readied the easel.

He was suddenly alerted by a loud miaow. He looked across at Spot, standing by her empty food bowl and crying for his attention as she did every meal time. She had a strong sense of routine, so it puzzled Data momentarily as to why she was demanding her evening meal so early. He tried to focus on the empty canvas again. Another miaow.

‘Spot,’ he chided, gently, ‘it is not yet time for your feed. It is only…’

It was 1800 hours. He had been standing there since 15.27. The paints had congealed, besides the black acrylic, which was all used up on the palette. The brush in his hand had bristles stained with black paint. He had no memory of painting anything, and indeed the canvas was still blank…

He had painted on himself again. The same as those times before – thick, neat print along the new synthetic skin on his arm. ‘HELP’.

_HELP!_

He set down the paints and paintbrush carefully, replicated Spot’s dinner and went to wash off the message on his arm. Automatically, he pulled up his tunic. Whenever he wrote the message on his arm, he always did it on the lowest part of his belly as well, backwards, so that he would read it the correct way around in the mirror. He hesitated for a moment in unfastening his pants to push them down over the waiting message.

_hands hands pulling at his clothes he was going to have to do this he was going to have to do this with them all watching with their hands everywhere fear guilt shame shame shame_

Another miaow made him realise that he had left Spot’s dinner in the replicator and that a further six minutes five seconds had passed.

**I dim the lights, and think about you, spend sleepless nights to think about you**

He never activated his dream programme any more. Oh no no no no no no no. Once, in a moment of quiet confession, Jean Luc had told Data that he was a little jealous that sleep was an option for him. The dreams, Jean Luc had insisted, were the worst part.

Data was not willing to attempt them, not yet. Instead, nights were spent standing in the dark, watching from the window if his quarters for a trace of them coming back as they were certain to do. They were so fast, so fast, and he could not be taken alive by them again. The things they would do…

_Kill me kill me kill me hands hands shame and pain help help_

The door chime made him jump. A lifetime ago, he would have wondered at an aural stimulus causing such a violent physical reaction in him. Not now. He understood flatly what it was now. He was just really scared. All the time. It was horrible.

He pressed himself into a corner. ‘Come in.’

It was Commander Riker. Data did not peel himself away from his corner. If anything, he wanted to shrink into it further.

‘Sorry about calling so late,’ said Riker, ‘But I figured you probably aren’t sleeping, these days.’ Riker stood awkwardly near the door, hesitant to move towards Data, leaving man and android awkwardly conversing across the expanse of his quarters. ‘Didn’t like the way things were left, today. You do know all of this is just so that you can get better? Feel better?’

Data did not answer.

‘Truth is,’ sighed Riker, ‘I can’t stand seeing you like this. Anxious, distracted, withdrawn… crying in the turbolift…’

‘She told you?’

‘She had to, you’re still under close observation.’

‘In case I do something to the ship…’

‘In case you do something to yourself!’ Riker rubbed his hand over his beard, indicating that he had something to say but was unsure as how to best go about it. ‘I consulted Deanna this evening, I was going to wait until your session with her tomorrow so that we can both discuss it with you, but… we’ve decided that the plan we initially made to ease you back into active duty as from today was jumping the gun…’

‘…no…’

‘…and that, if anything, it’s highlighted a lot of problems that you’ve managed to keep hidden while holed up in your quarters. For that reason, we both agree that it would be for the best to put you on Priority Alpha Onboard Care Leave.’

‘No!’

‘It’s not optional at this stage, Data, it means that Deanna can prioritise you in her schedule for much longer and more intensive counselling, you get to stay on the ship… give it a month, then we can review your return to…’

‘I do not meet the criteria for the Priority Alpha care program!’ Data flung an arm out in dismay briefly, before crossing it tightly across his chest again. ‘That is for crewmembers suffering serious mental or emotional complaints…’

‘It’s for PTSD sufferers…’ argued Riker, counting his points off on his fingers, ‘Kidnap survivors, torture survivors, mutilation survivors…’

‘No no no no…’

‘…it’s for survivors of sexual...’

‘It is for suicide risks!’

Riker regarded him, sadly. ‘Yeah, I know.’

Deanna Troi had been reading his feelings, and telling. Telling _him_. He was not safe.

‘I only consider termination,’ he told Riker, as levelly as he could, ‘in the context of them coming back.’

‘But you still consider it.’

‘You do not understand. You do not know them as I know them…’

Riker had started taking steps towards him. He did not trust it.

You’re right. I don’t. But one of your friends does. Do you talk with the Captain much about it?’

Besides a couple of snatched moments, he had not. They were still both getting used to being left on the collective together – a psychic link on an open channel with their abusers. The Captain would send him hummed little tunes on occasion when he was feeling particularly distressed. Sometimes, Data found it comforting to know that there was a friendly mind out there. Sometimes it made him want to ram spikes through his empty socket and into his brain, just to stop the reminder that his friend, his Captain, was party to what had happened. Likely, Jean Luc had felt them through the collective when they had done it. And Locutus had been different. It had been terrible, in ways that Data could not comprehend, but it had been different.

There was only one person who could possibly understand what he had gone through, what he had been forced to do, and she was a ghost.

Riker was right in front of him, suddenly – how had that happened?

‘Listen,’ he said, and there was that hand on his beard again, working out how he was going to say something, and he was too close, too close, help help get out help, he knows, they all know, the footage, Deanna Troi in your mind and Jean Luc Picard on the collective and they all know, he knows.

‘I’m about to tell you something I’ve never told anyone,’ continued Riker, ‘not even Deanna…’

help help he wants to do it too he knows how easy it would be how easy _you_ would be, just have to ask, just have to _tell_ you hands hands help help wake up data wake up help

Riker frowned. ‘I know how easy what would be?’ 

Shit. He had said some of it out loud again.

‘You switched me off,’ said Data.

‘At that disgusting trial they made me take part in? Data, that was years ago, is this spinning out into another Grief Week, here? Because we definitely should have put you on Priority Alpha for Grief Week, you almost died. Twice.’

The last thing Data needed right now was a reminder of the time, soon after the Enterprise D had crashed, when the belated emotional impacts of the deaths of Lal, Tasha, Noonien Soong, Lore and many other besides had all hit him at once. He had gone into two almost fatal cascade failures. This was not another Grief Week. This was not about old pain, but new ones.

‘You switched me off,’ repeated Data, ‘you studied me, like a thing, am I a thing?’

‘I apologised for that, they made me, Data, you’re not a thing any more than I’m a thing of meat…’

‘I was programmed to pleasure multiple genders…’

‘Hey, that’s great news, me too.’

help help help he knows, not safe, not safe, wake up

‘Is that what you came here for?’

‘God, no! What? Where’s this come from?’

‘I have an anus’

‘Again, me too, we can form a club, if you like.’

‘Is that what you want?’

‘To form a League of Pansexuals With Assholes Club? Not really, but if you think it’ll help…’

help help help toying with you now, that’s what they do just before the hands the hands help wake up

And then Riker was in the air, thrown by some mighty force, and Spot was running to hide under the bed, scared, and Riker hit a wall hard, and Data was running to hide somewhere, scared, out of his quarters, along the corridor, escape help help wake up escape them help wake up

He hit a dead end. A turbolift. The doors slid shut around him and he was alone, all alone.

And that is when he woke up.

**You said you loved me, or were you just being kind?**

Turbolift. That is what this used to be.

Upside down.

By his ankles.

Tubing, in his mouth, down his throat.

PAIN PAIN PAIN PAIN FEAR FEAR FEAR DARKNESS

The stink, the stink.

Pull out the tubing, PAIN PAIN PAIN on the inside, all through the inside, pain.

The tubing wet and slack, hitting the floor. Vomit. Vomit? Something akin to it, hot, unfamiliar liquid.

Free the ankles. A fall, hitting the wet, slippery, stinking floor, and PAIN PAIN.

Open the door... No! Check the door.

Ear to the door, listen!

The other side, thirty two life forms. All Borg. All Borg. All Borg! They came back please no kill me no WAIT, perhaps they never left. 

Perhaps it is all still happening.

Through the roof of the turbolift. Jump up (PAIN) rip open a hole (PAIN) drag self through (PAIN).

Now climb (PAIN), open door (PAIN) three decks up where no Borg can be heard, and run, run, run, run, run…

Hands. HANDS!!!! Hands push him off balance, he falls, the hands grab him, drag him, no, no please kill me please no.

Back to the turbolift

No 

His own hands, scrabbling fruitlessly at the floor

A strange, metallic sound

Through the hole in the turbolift ceiling (PAIN), crash splash on the disgusting floor again (PAIN)

The strange metallic shrillness has found words

No no no no no

Dragged through the waiting Borg (32)

No no no help please help

The doors to Engineering, as once was, now the nest, the Queen’s lair

No help no no no no please no

The table.

Hauled up, like an unloved doll and slammed onto the table and then he sees and oh, the noise is him screaming

Screaming at the uncaring face of Locutus.

‘Well.’ _Her_ voice. ‘Here we are again. I imagine you’re confused, but I’m getting very tired of explaining this to you over and over. You think you escaped. You think you cried for help and your Captain came running and freed you. You did cry for your Captain to come and help. All it did was deliver Locutus back to us.’

no no no no

‘But then, since you’re the one who snatched him from us in the first place, it’s only fitting. We assimilated him in front of you. You were upset, do you remember?

no please help kill me please no help

‘And since then, we’ve been taking our time leaving you to dream so that we can pluck anything useful out of your thoughts and memories. You probably noticed that a few things didn’t quite make sense – your sense of time slips, in the dreams. It isn’t very helpful when you keep waking up, though, so every time you wake yourself, we give you incentives not to.’

no no no no

‘What shall it be, this time?” Her breath, the feel of her hands, cold. ‘Shall I have Locutus hold you down for me? Or shall I have you held down for Locutus?’

no no no no NO NO NO NO

‘You really should have accepted our gifts with grace from the start, all of this would have been so much more pleasant.’

Locutus’ face right up against his, now, no no no

‘This was inevitable, Data. It always was. When we tell you resistance is futile… it’s a kindness.’

Screaming against the inevitable, his limbs straining to fight against the inevitable, desperately searching Locutus’ eyes for some hint of the kind and gentle man who had rescued him, who had guided him all those years, who… loved him, but finding only cold, hard Borg, no no no no…

‘Data’.

no no no no

‘Data.’

no no NO NO

‘Data. It’s OK.’

And it was both in his audio receptors and in the whisper of the collective, in his mind.

And it was not Locutus’ voice, but Jean Luc Picard’s. 

And it was kind, and it was gentle.

And he was still in the turbolift, and the stench of Borg was gone.

And he was curled in the corner, with the Captain on his knees in front of him, with Commander Riker and Counselor Troi at his sides.

And he could tell that his dream programme had activated itself automatically. (Or maybe this was the dream? No. That had been the dream.)

And the Captain was wrong; it was not OK.

He was not OK.

But he was safe.

(Was he? Possibly.)

Yes. 

(Possibly.)

**Or am I losing my mind?**

‘Suppose that’s one upside to having emotions _and_ a link to the collective,’ Commander Riker told him as they walked, ‘by the time I’d picked myself up and gone after you, Deanna and the Captain were already running full tilt towards the turbolift, like twin alarm bells had gone off in them. Quite the early warning system we’ve managed to end up with.’

The Commander had a visible bruise on the side of his face and most likely, from the manner in which he was holding himself, had also badly bruised his ribs. It made Data feel… like a colossal jerk.

‘I apologise for hurting you.’

‘You were in a bad way, I should have kept my distance. Sorry if I triggered… whatever that was.’

‘It was not you. It may have been the turbolift.’ He paused. ‘Which makes no sense – it is understandable that Engineering would be a source of anxiety, but they never put me in a turbolift…’

‘You don’t need to rationalise your triggers, Data, they don’t have to make neat and tidy logical sense. What you need is to learn to heal. Or, at least for the time being, learn to cope.’ 

They had come to the door to Data’s quarters.

‘Priority Alpha doesn’t confine you to quarters,’ Riker assured him, ‘it’s the same as sick leave, only with twice daily counselling sessions, regular wellbeing check-ups, and, uh…’ he faltered. ‘At the discretion of the ship’s counsellor, there may be times when you are assigned a companion for short periods when the professional belief is that it’s better for you not to be left alone, and… well, you did just hallucinate in the turbolift, Deanna felt quite strongly that…’ He trailed off. ‘I can call for Geordi, if you like? Or the good Counsellor herself? If it would be awkward for me to be the one to stay. I know I… I dunno, I worry you for some reason, these days.’

‘I find it curious that Counsellor Troi would see fit to assign you to watch me.’ Data found that the only parts of Riker he was able to address were his shoes. ‘I did just throw you at a wall.’

‘She didn’t. She thought it was a bad idea. She wanted to watch you herself, but I insisted.’

Data raised his gaze. Not to meet Riker’s eyes, that still felt like too much, but he was at least able to look as far as his knees, which seemed like an improvement.

‘Why?’

‘Well, firstly to make sure my back didn’t damage your wall too much, secondly, to make sure your cat wasn’t too frightened, and thirdly… I’m your friend, Data, and I feel like somehow what happened with those dickheads has made you scared of your friends. Made you scared of me. And I feel like maybe I’m the one who should be making you feel like this is still a place where you can be safe, and happy. I love happiness. I love laughter, when’s the last time you laughed, Data?’

Data thought about this.

‘Before _Them_.’

Riker shook his head. ‘I really hate those dickheads.’

Data opened the door to his quarters, and allowed Riker in. ‘Me too.’

Spot was more annoyed than frightened, when they got back in. The wall was fine, but it made Data ashamed.

‘You may take the bed,’ Data told Riker. ‘I will not be activating my dream programme, but it would be a comfort to me to have company, even if you are asleep. It may keep me from…’

_From watching the window anxiously for their return? From talking to a dead woman in a dead bar? From ‘waking’ to a ship crawling with Borg?_

‘…from spiraling,’ he concluded.

Riker sat on the edge of the bed. ‘There’s another reason I wanted to be the one to stay,’ he said, quietly. ‘I was about to tell you something, before you decided to let me know about your asshole, which is still a really weird thing for you to have done, Data.’

‘Apologies. I believe that it was an act of panic.’

‘It’s OK, and I’m looking forward to us getting to the point in all this mess when I can tease you about it.’ Riker offered Data a small smile, which Data felt unable to return.

‘Here’s the thing,’ said Riker, his hand at his beard, again. ‘And this is between us. I’ve been there. Here. Where you are. Not with the Borg, I can’t imagine, that must be… but there was an “event”. I was isolated, I was in a tight spot and there was this woman who knew I desperately needed help, and she used that as leverage for sex.’ He shrugged. ‘So, I went through with it. And I kept telling myself how pretty she was and it was great and I love sex, and it would have been perfectly nice, normal sex… if I hadn’t been forced into it, like it was payment for my survival. Truth told it made me feel horrible. Shameful. I didn’t talk about it, at all, but sometimes I dream about it, and sometimes I have these daydreams where… wow, this is going to sound dumb, but sometimes I daydream that I’m talking about it with Tasha. Because she went through similar troubles, she was like me in that way, so I always felt like maybe she’d understa… shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you cry.’

Data had not even realised. He cleaned up the tears quickly. ‘It is all right.’

‘I was talking about a sore spot anyway,’ Riker chided himself, ‘and then I have to go and bring Tasha in to it…’

‘I talk to her too,’ said Data, suddenly.

Riker’s expression brightened a little. ‘Really?’

‘It is in part because I feel guilty, because I feel I have besmirched her memory, somehow… you know, _She_ made me think about my intimacy with Tasha when She…’

All the sun in Riker’s expression darkened away again. ‘I _really_ hate those dickheads.’

‘But in part also, I suppose that I too talk to her because perhaps the brutality of her formative years would mean she would understand what I went through. She was, as you say, like me in that regard.’ Data paused. ‘Like us.’

He sat on the bed next to Riker. The physical proximity did not seem threatening, any more.

‘It’s a shitty, shitty club to be a part of,’ sighed Riker.

‘I do prefer Pansexuals With Assholes Club,’ admitted Data. ‘It sounds like more fun.’

Riker smiled. ‘Hey, we’re also in Identical Doubles Club. And Thomas isn’t evil as such, but we are both, y’know, the better one.’

Data lay down and looked up at the ceiling. ‘We should get pins.’

‘”Pansexuals With Assholes” on the left pec,’ Riker added, lying next to him, ‘”Kiss Me, I’m The Good Double” on the right.’ He started giggling. ‘Can’t believe you interrupted my big confessional to tell me about your butt.’

‘So, the “point in all this mess when you can tease me about this” is, in fact, thirty seven minutes after I had a hallucinatory breakdown.’

‘I’m sorry,’ laughed Will, ‘I’m sorry. The most ridiculous thing is, I already knew. I had to study you for that horrible trial of Maddox’s that made me hate myself. I’ve been quietly going about my day knowing about your ass, which from the design of it I’m guessing is…’

‘Purely recreational,’ Data told him, with a new found sense of freedom. Will did not feel like a threat any more. He was like Data. They were in a shitty, shitty club together and he understood.

‘…knowing about your purely recreational ass, for _years_ ,’ continued Will. He nudged Data. ‘You’re laughing!’

‘Maybe a little.’

‘Oh come on, that was a chuckle. A giggle. A guffaw, almost.’

‘That was not a “guffaw”.’

And so that was how they stayed, talking on the bed, laughing a little, crying a little. The cat came up and sat on each of them in turn before curling up to sleep in an unused corner of the mattress and after a while, Will too fell asleep, sideways on the bed, in full uniform with shod feet resting on the floor.

He was not a threat. His friends were not threats. Perhaps they might all understand. 

The shame still punched at him, through it all, and the fear. 

He thought about the dream. ( _Had_ it been a dream? Yes. This was the reality.)

(Then, what explanation was there for the discrepancies with his internal chronometer?)

(Was he simply losing his mind?)

He did not activate his dream programme. 

He thought about them coming back.

He thought about the footage Geordi had seen, and about Locutus, and about Tasha, and… and about a pin reading “Kiss Me, I’m The Good Double”, which made him laugh to himself again.

He thought about them coming back.

He lay there for two hours, twelve minutes and seven seconds, and then he got up and quietly watched out of the window for their return.

**Author's Note:**

> The Data/Riker flirting towards the end just sort of... happened, but Will's story relates to the TV Episode 'First Contact'.


End file.
